Ogata Gekko, Picture of Officers and Men Worshipping the Rising Sun While Encamped in the Mountains of Port Arthur

If my self was my dwelling, then my body resembled an orchard that surrounded it. I could either cultivate that orchard to its capacity or leave it for the weeds to run riot in. I was free to choose, but the freedom was not as obvious as it might seem. Many people, indeed, go so far as to refer to the orchards of their dwellings as "destiny".

One day, it occurred to me to set about cultivating my orchard for all I was worth.

Here's a summer read, a short palate cleanser before we dive back into Montaigne, and as a special treat, it's not even that old. 1968! Our youngest book yet. I'm bending our rules hard this time.

Portrait of Michel de Montaigne, Augustin de Saint-Aubin, 1774

Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there’s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure about so frivolous and vain a subject.

In 1570, Michel de Montaigne, then 37, retired from his law career. A year later, he began his real work. Sequestering himself in his study (literally a tower), he set about inventing, and even immediately perfecting, a new literary form: the essay.

Photo by Batatolis Panagiotis

It is impossible to live pleasantly without living prudently, honourably, and justly and impossible to live prudently, honourably, and justly without living pleasantly.

Epicurus was a very prolific philosopher, authoring over 300 works. This month, we will read all of them.

All of the ones that have survived.

Had you going there, didn't I? As it happens, there's not that much left, so with very little effort, by the end of the month you will have read as much Epicurus as anyone alive.

At Maecenas' Reception Room, Stefan Bakałowicz, 1890

He who puts off the hour to begin living rightly;
Is like the yokel who stands at the stream with a sigh:
“I can't get across. I'll wait here till it runs dry.”
Meanwhile, it flows, forever flows on and rolls by.

Horace's Epistles are collections (two of them, but almost always published together) of letters addressed to various people and composed in hexameter verse. They are full of useful moral maxims, but this is poetry, not carefully argued philosophy with a definite point of view. Nonetheless, the mature Horace of the Epistles is definitely reaching out beyond beauty, to get a hold on truth and goodness as well:

So now I lay aside my verses and all other toys. What is right and seemly is my study and pursuit, and to that am I wholly given.

Portrait drawing of Rainer Maria Rilke, Leonid Pasternak, 1901

Do you remember how this life of yours longed in childhood to belong to the 'grown-ups'? I can see that it now longs to move on from them and is drawn to those who are greater yet. That is why it does not cease to be difficult, but also why it will not cease to grow.

It's been a while. Let's ease back into our reading with a short one, a miniature jewel: the poet Rainer Maria Rilke's ten letters written to Franz Xaver Kappus in the years 1903–1908 (Yes, that's very modern by our standards. We'll let it slide this time). Kappus, an unhappy officer cadet who dreamed of living the life of a poet instead, sent some of his verses to the already published and somewhat famous (although almost as young as himself) poet Rilke asking for criticism and advice. He didn't get criticism (“any critical intention is too remote from me”, says Rilke) but of advice he got plenty. And what advice it is!